Pancake Day

Anyone who lives in or around New Orleans will, I'm sure, happily tell you of Fat Tuesday, otherwise known as Mardi Gras. While it started out as a celebration before the fast of Lent, it is now primarily an excuse to get drunk and wear weird outfits.

The Brits, of course, have their own version of Fat Tuesday, but without the party. Over here, we call it Shrove Tuesday, and it is Pancake Day. Because of the fasts of Lent, people wanted to get rid of the excess temptations filling their pantries (also, to eat the things before they went bad over Lent), and as a result, Pancake Day came into existence. People rarely fast for Lent anymore, but, well, any reason to eat is a good enough one for me (PANCAKES!!!).

The pancakes here are not pancakes as we know them. They're thinner, lighter and overall crepe-ier, but they're still delicious. However, the images you will see below are not of people devouring the delicious doughy substance, but, rather, racing with it.

The annual Pancake Day races (in Brick Lane) have also somehow insinuated themselves into the tradition. They are relay races in teams of three, in which the runner goes from end to end, pan in hand, flipping upon command of the arbitrators (those are the dudes in the striped pajamas with the light sabers in the photos. Whenever they point their light saber and yell flip, you have to). While the pancakes do not alway remain in pan upon flipping, this seems to be a minor difficulty to most competitors, who simply pick the thing up off of the ground and plop it back in. The winner is awarded a silver frying pan with their name engraved onto it (which isn't much good for cooking I would guess, but if you want to run around carrying a pancake in it, it'd probably work well enough).

The costumes are optional, but they certainly make it more fun. Personally, my day isn't complete if I don't see some guy dressed up as a hot pink dragon, but that's just me.

Oxford Photos continued

This is the infamous image of Thomas Beckett getting killed.

It says "Fear God, Love the Brotherhood, Honor the King"

Can you find the toilet hidden in this image?

Oxford Photos

Let's call this a beginning. I've taken loads more pictures, but well, I don't want anyone's computer to explode, so I'll post the ones of the cathedral and the dining hall and such later. Those are really cool, so I will eventually post them, and if I don't, remind me.

P.S. If you couldn't tell from these photos, I like trees.

This is the Eagle and Child, the pub where the Inklings used to hang out, including J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. And in case you couldn't tell, that is an eagle carrying a baby in its talons.

In case you can't read what's inscribed underneath the clock, it says "Fortis est veritas" or "Strength is truth." I found that quite interesting.

This bridge is supposed to be a replica of the Bridge of Sighs in Italy (a much smaller replica, of course).

Oxford

The city of dreaming spires, while not exactly what I was expecting, nonetheless deserves attention.

Far from the warren of tunnels and battling muddied children I was anticipating, Oxford is a lovely, academic city, brimming with universities, bookstores, churches and tourists. However, not even tourism can overshadow the quiet academic beauty of Oxford. Most of the city is built of a warm, yellow-coloured stone, which looks buttery in the sunlight. It's a city of stained-glass windows and academia, with the oldest University, of course, being Oxford University, founded in 911 A.D. by Alfred the Great. Despite his love of scholarship and academia, legend has it the the mighty Alfred actually couldn't read.

It has been a home of worship and the grounds of religious persecution. In the middle of what now seems like a perfectly innocuous street, Bishops Ridley and Latimer were burned at the stake during Bloody Mary's reign (part of the reason she was called bloody Mary). Apparently, as the English were quite out of practice at burning people at the stake, the result was rather an unpleasant experience all around (lesson learned, don't use green wood when you're trying to burn someone. They won't cook evenly.)

It has served as a refuge to kings, serving as King Charles' hiding place during Cromwell's revolution. Apparently, while the town supported Parliament, the University stuck by their king, keeping him behind the college's fortress-like walls. It obviously didn't work, but it was a noble effort.

Oxford, that famous home of education and literature, obviously the breeding ground of many scholars and politicians, has also managed to turn out it's fair share of famous authors. I can now proudly say that I saw the college that J.R.R. Tolkien attended (Exeter College, by the way). Well, ok, I saw the wall around it. That's close enough, right?

I did, however, eat at the famous home of the Inklings.

What are the Inklings, you ask?

Inklings are tiny little black creatures that attack you in the night.

Just kidding.

The Inklings were a literary society that Tolkien and C.S. Lewis (who were best buds in college) were a part of. The budding geniuses, along with their friends, frequented the Eagle and Child pub (pictures later). Legend has it that after imbibing quite a few pints, one of the guys claimed that a small creature had grabbed his beer, and thus hobbits were born.

If you're going to Oxford, the Eagle and Child makes quite a good stop, as it has not yet been impacted by the hordes of tourists invading the city. The food is good (and relatively cheap) and the service is friendly. Although, I did learn, at that point, that a beer with lunch is not a good idea. It was just one, but, well, it's not necessarily something I'll repeat. And no, a hobbit did not take my beer (although I would like to have met one).

We also stopped to pay a quick homage to the genius of Lewis Carroll, who also attended college at Oxford, and saw the birthplace of Alice and her Wonderland. Carroll, a painfully shy academic, couldn't tolerate the company of adults, and thusly, found himself spending a lot of time with the Dean's two young daughters, one of whom was named Alice. Considering Carroll's childlike companions, and the Dean who was constantly running late for his 'very important dates,' it is not too difficult to discover the roots of a children's classic.

Queen Victoria was charmed by Alice in Wonderland, going so far as to get an autographed copy, and to wrangle a personal promise from Carroll that he would send her an autographed copy of the next book he wrote. He was as good as his word, but the Queen was rather disappointed, seeing as Carroll was a professor of mathematics, and his next text was an expostulation of mathematical theory.

And of course, we saw Christ Church, one of the more famous colleges.

Why is it famous, you ask?

Is it famous because it was established by Cardinal Wolsey?

Is is famous because it contains the sole surviving portrait of Thomas Beckett (barely saved from it's destruction at the hands of Henry VIII's religous revolution)?

No.

Indeed, it is now famous because it's cafeteria was the model for the dining hall in the Harry Potter films. While the dining hall in Christ Church is lovely, it is also quite small, and one can see why they built one three times its size at the studios, north of London.

Christ Church's church is also quite worth having a look at, filled with antique statues in its niches, crowded with religious significance. Indeed, every college has its own chapel, but that one is the only one counted as a Cathedral. Inside the cathedral, among the images in the stained glass, you will find the only surviving portrayal of Thomas Beckett (famously being killed by the four knights).

Why was it the only one to survive?

Because it doesn't have any facial features, and as a result Henry could not positively prove that it was an image of Thomas Beckett.

In short, Oxford is a beautiful, historical, impressive city, one with far more value and knowledge within it than I can attempt to sum up in one little blog entry. But I hope that I have managed to convey some sort of impression of the city, and I will be posting photos of it later.

Internship Toolkit: Again

She told me to put away my book, and as I had nothing else to do, I decided to perfect my rhyming skills. Here is the horrifically uncreative result:

Wishing you'd just shut up
Wishing you'd fall mute
Wishing a bird would fly in the window
And crap upon your suit
Wishing that you'd realize
We're not as stupid as we look
Shut your mouth, stop talking
And just let me read my book

Thank you. I know I'm brilliant. Yeah, poems like this are why I gave up on writing poetry.

Tate Modern Love Story

This is the love story that came out of my meanderings at the Tate Modern, primarily inspired by a full-length portrait of a young lady that I ended up sitting in front of (people give you the weirdest looks when you're sprawled on the floor of an art museum, scribbling in a notebook like a maniac). The second work of 'art' that 'inspired' it was a canvas with a bunch of branches and brambly things stuck onto it. Also, read 'The Beggar Maid' by Alice Munro a few weeks ago, and there's a bit of that in there as well. And we had to include the particular profession that we were assigned the prior week (window washer). Seeing as I've been talking for far too long, I think I'll just paste in the story and let you guys read it. Keep in mind that it hasn't been edited at all. The way I typed it out initially is the way that you're seeing it. Also, I know that it's cheesy. Deal with it.

- Lena

Untitled

She was waiting. She wasn’t sure why she was waiting, as she wasn’t even sure that she liked him, especially now that he was a half hour late.

She’d spent the last hour doing her hair, cleverly manipulating the hot iron so that the rippling waves of her auburn hair fell around her face just so.

And in the process she’d burned herself three times, the red scorch marks mottling her white hands. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice them when he came to pick her up.

She’d put on the flowing white skirt, the one she only wore on special occasions, the one that rippled around her legs like a restless ocean when she walked. It was a point of pride for her: she didn’t have much of a figure, elbows and angles sticking out in places she’d rather not have them, but she had legs, long, slim ones that seemed to precede her when she walked into a room.

And the matching white shoes were peeping out from under the skirt (even though she knew that they were a bad idea. They were princess shoes, made for someone who’d never get her feet dirty. But then, she’d hoped he was her prince and had put them on anyway).

The coral peony she’d been hoping to wear in her hair (it was pretty, and much cheaper than jewelry, the practical portion of her brain told her) nicely set off the soft mauve of her top, the flowing, curtain sleeves covering just enough of her shoulders.

But the flower lay neglected on the small wooden table in the kitchen, sitting forlornly next to the wooden bow from her cello, which sat not-so-far away. She’d been practicing earlier, so focused on the music, wrapped up in the echoes in her mind, that she’d nearly forgotten to get ready.

But she had. She’d spent her time waiting for him to pick her up. Not because she liked him, but because Mother did (or at least liked the contents of his wallet).

And when the silly little rich boy had offered to take her out for a nice dinner, she’d said yes.
And now, at 6:40, she sat waiting and knew that he wasn’t coming.

She gazed down at herself, pitying the time she’d wasted in getting ready, the time she could’ve spent with the warm wood of her cello or reading the pile of books stacked up by her bed. And then the thought came to her.

It wasn’t ladylike (as most interesting thoughts nearly never are), but it made her smile.

“Fuck him,” she thought. “I’m all ready to go, so I’ll go out on my own.”

And with that, she grabbed her wrap and stepped out into the street, feeling the cooling breeze of the oncoming evening chill her cheeks as she swung the door shut behind her.

Of course, it wasn’t until the door shut behind her that she realized she didn’t really have anywhere to go. But that didn’t really matter.

The park, she swiftly decided, picking the first reasonable option that came to mind.
And so she wended her way down the street towards the park. It was a lukewarm August evening and the sun had not yet set. It glittered against the many windows of the soaring buildings, and she couldn’t help looking up at the sparkle.

So engrossed was she by the sparkling windows in the sunset that she didn’t notice the gentleman washing them, or, indeed, the ladder that he was on.

Didn’t notice it, in fact, until she’d walked into it. And then she noticed it. She noticed the loud cry of surprise which seemed to come from the man (and observed an equally loud scream that had seemed to come from her own person). She noticed the ladder toppling down (and the man with it). And finally, she noticed the rather thorny mulberry bush that she’d been knocked into.

Attempting to pick the twigs out of her hair (which was no longer the neatly coiffed thing it had been when she’d left the house) and brushing the dirt off of her hands, she rose, rather angrily, from the depths of the bush. Seeing her white skirt streaked with the purple of the bush’s namesake, her face quickly grew to match, eyes narrowing to angry slits as she glared at the man in front of her, who seemed to be whistling as he pulled his ladder back up and started setting everything to rights.

“Are you all right?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

Ignoring his question, she raged up him, jabbing a finger in front of his rather long, straight nose.

“You ruined my skirt!” she shouted, as though accusing him of murder.

“Yes, well, you knocked me off my ladder and set me back in my work,” he replied calmly. “So, all in all, it seems like a fair trade.”

His equanimity seemed to enrage her more, and her face turned a deeper shade of purple, if that was even possible (after all, human complexions, particularly ones as pale as hers, have their limit).

“YOU!!! But … I ….But you … And I’m going to…. And you’re ….. AAUURRGGHH!!”

Her mouth didn’t seem to want to put together a coherent sentence, and her brain wasn’t cooperating either (although a small, rational part of her mind told her that he was right, and that she had knocked him off of his ladder, after all), and with the final shriek of outrage, tears began to spill down her plum-coloured face, and she stormed off, the still-white heels clomping on her way down the pavement.

That same small rational part of her brain was asking her why she didn’t just go home and try to wash the stains out of her skirt, but she pushed it to the back of her mind, the way one throws a squalling alarm clock under a pillow, and her feet kept her going.

Because stained skirt and rumpled hair or no, she was going to make the most of her freedom. She was going to make it to that damn park if it killed her (and it just might, that rational tiny part of her mind said, as she began to feel her toes throb).

The sun made its final descent behind the trees in a splash of red and gold and the colour cheered her up just a bit as she finally set foot on the gravel paths of the park, surrounded by trees whispering in the wind, and the light of dying sun, the last bits of gold glittering off of the green in their leaves.

She sat down on a park bench, feeling the solid wood beneath her, and closed her eyes for an instant, feeling the breeze against her face, rearranging the disordered curls of her hair.

“Nature’s first green is gold,”[1] she whispered into the wind, and might have continued reciting the entire poem, softly to herself, if the breeze had not brought the trace of a familiar voice.

“Yes, darling,” he said. “We can go get an ice cream if that’s what you’d like.”

Her blood froze in her veins, and it wasn’t because of the wind.

An overly feminine giggle followed the proposition concerning frozen desserts (which she was certain, now, would involve more than ice cream). Looking over, she saw him, his arm wrapped around a petite blond, whose long hair twined down her back.

He twirled her hair around his fingers, his arm around the blonde’s shoulders as they stopped under a willow, letting its branches shadow them in the growing dusk. And it was still just light enough outside that she could see him as he lowered his face down for a kiss.

And then she’d had it. It was enough that he’d stood her up, and now he was making out with this floozy in the park, right in front of her?

She stood up and marched over to the couple on unsteady feet (her toes still hurt).

“Gerald?” she asked, her voice squeaking up at the end, like a little girl’s.

It took him several seconds to extricate his tongue from the blonde's mouth and gather his wits together enough to realize who had called his name. And then he had the decency to at least look a little bit embarrassed.

“Lydia. Hello,” he replied.

“You …. You never picked me up,” her words came out jumbled, and she had intended something more accusatory, but somehow hadn’t quite gotten there.

“I …. well …. I’m sorry … I’d forgotten that we had a … ummm … appointment,” he managed to splutter (apparently his tongue was still tied up with the idea of its former occupation).

“Appointment, huh?” she asked, anger building in red spots on her cheeks. “We didn’t have an appointment. We were supposed to have dinner. We were supposed to go out. And you never showed up!”

With each truncated sentence her voice had grown louder, and anger had turned her voice from a little girl’s shrill to a shout.

“Now that you, erm, bring it up,” he replied, finally gathering his wits about him and continuing smoothly. “Genevieve, here, (he nods toward the blond, who is now standing smugly against her tree) is an old friend of mine, and when I ran into her, you know, on my way to pick you up, I simply had to take some time to catch up with my old friend.”

The last few words had contained ice, and Lydia felt a prickle behind her eyes as she studied the blonde, Genevieve, at closer range. The blonde wore a mink stole around her shoulders, on top of a rather tight pink silk dress. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and wrists … and Lydia gulped as she saw the sizable diamond ring on Genevieve’s left hand.

It took her a moment to realize that he was talking again.

“And now I’m rather glad that I didn’t remember to pick you up,” he continued smugly, “Seeing as you prefer a rather more natural look than I generally like.”

His eyes slid up and down her figure, noting the torn and stained skirt, disheveled hair, scratched skin. He smiled, but it did nothing to relieve the ice daggers shooting from his eyes.

“I … well …. I … you see … it just …” she continued to stammer, helpless in the face of his composure.

It was completely dark now and the streetlamps were lit. Coming from the edge of the park, she heard a whistle and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The last thing she needed now was for someone else to witness her humiliation. It was enough already that Gerald would tell everyone he knew about tonight, and he knew everyone.

She didn’t open her eyes until a slightly familiar voice, seeming to come from a few feet away, spoke, seemingly to her.

“Are you all right, miss?” asked the window washer she’d passed earlier.

Clearly, he’d finished the job that she’d delayed him in completing, as he was walking along with his ladder in one hand and a bucket in the other. He seemed different now, and she could see the kind twinkle in his blue eyes, noticed that he was taller than she’d observed earlier.

She tried to blink back the tears in her eyes and find appropriate words to express just how ‘all right’ she was, and looked somewhat frantically from Gerald to the window washer.

She didn’t quite manage to assemble her words, and all that came out of her mouth was “Well …. I …. He … I’m just …. It’s just...”

But apparently that was enough, and the smile quickly faded from the window washer’s lean face. More swiftly than she would’ve thought possible, he’d dropped his bucket and ladder to the ground and walked over to the troubled threesome.

And before Lydia could stop him, he’d punched Gerald in the face and taken her hand. Shocked, she smiled at him quizzically as he pulled her away. He picked up the ladder and bucket and they ran, before Gerald had even had time to wipe off all of the blood streaming from his nose.

As Gerald and Genevieve faded into the background, Lydia was pleased to see that Genevieve had gotten blood on her pretty silk dress, and was now squalling uncontrollably while Gerald tried to stem the blood flow.

When they finally stopped, a good distance away, and she’d caught her breath, she began asking questions. They were both leaning against a building, and the brick was cool and a bit scratchy against her arms.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because he was a jerk.”

“Yeah? And how did you know that?”

“It’s not that hard to tell when someone’s an idiot,” he replied.

And then he added a bit sheepishly, “And besides, he was making you cry, which is more than enough to prove that he’s an idiot.”

She blushed crimson in the darkness, and hoped that he couldn’t see.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, just loud enough for her to know that he could hear her. And she smiled at him, only to find, when she looked up, that he’d been smiling down at her.

“But I knocked you off of your ladder, and spoiled your work. Aren’t you upset over that?”

“No harm done,” he said. “And sometimes it’s worth getting knocked off your ladder, if the person doing the knocking’s as pretty as you.”

She laughed then, and was glad when he laughed too. He had a good laugh. It was deep, throaty and warm.

“You must’ve hurt your hand, punching him as hard as you did,” she mused aloud.

“No … I’m...” his voice trailed off as her hand found his.

Her small white fingers carefully inspected his larger, rougher ones. And they didn’t let go once they’d found that there really hadn’t been any damage done.

“Will you walk me home?” she asked.

He smiled back in response and nodded.

Picking up his things again, he somehow maneuvered well enough to do it with one hand, as his right one was still being monopolized by the girl in the stained white skirt.

As they approached her house she reluctantly let go of his hand, and he wished that the street had been longer.

She found herself glad that Gerald had stood her up.

Looking up into her window washer’s eyes, she pulled herself onto her tip-toes and kissed his cheek, before she went inside. She glanced back at him on the final stair, smiling, and knowing, somehow, that life could be, would be, so much better after tonight.



[1] Robert Frost. “Nothing Gold Can Stay”


Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day,
Nothing gold can stay.

Tonight I saw The Taming of the Shrew, and, aside from hoping against hope (as usual) that the shrew would resist all taming, the performance was about average. They attempted to do something of an updating of it, with portions performed in modern clothing (but if you ask me, it failed, as it only left me confused). Other than that, the acting was good (although I will be the first to admit that I didn't entirely understand everything that they were saying). I will definitely go to the theatre again, although I think next time I'll go to a musical.

As it were, seeing the Taming of the Shrew was a lucky occurence (or perhaps unlucky), because both Wicked and the Woman in Black were sold out.

As far as more successful sojourns go, I went for a run this morning, and succeeded in not dying.
I decided upon going for a run primarily to investigate the area around my residence hall, but I also desired to reduce the rotundity of my figure. Of couse, because of said rotundity of figure, I could only go for half an hour's worth.

I also figured out where Hoxton Park is, and realized that I should buy proper running shoes. Also, I realized that black socks look tacky when you're running. I say running. What I should say is extraordinarily slow jogging accompanied by panting (and some pointing and staring on the part of passers-by). Next time I'll go in a different direction (and actually remember to wear pants; just kidding).

Also managed to actually find my way to Old Spitalfields Market while the thing was actually open (what a challenge it is to wake up before one o'clock in the afternoon!). It's actually quite wonderful, and the first real street market I've found. Old Spitalfields has been around for ages, and you can buy almost anything there: clothes, jewelry (both cheap and couture, ditto for clothes), silverware, books, odds and ends (there's a military booth where I saw an old Soviet Union officer's cap. Almost bought it, too, before deciding it was out of my price range. I also decided that it would be impractical, as it clashes with all of my outfits and I have nowhere to wear it anyway.)

My creative writing class met at the Tate Modern this week (in order to find inspiration for a story) and while the idea of using art to inspire a story is quite a good one (and certainly one that I've used before), my disdain for modern art remains. Dangling a rubber hose from the ceiling is not art. Although, to be fair, the surrealist gallery was quite interesting. In any case, if you have any affection for modern art, the Tate Modern will certainly be much more to your liking than to mine (and if you don't like modern art, you can go to the Jeff Koons exhibit and watch porn until you're ready to leave).

The crowning jewel of all galleries (or at least all of the ones that I've seen thus far) is the National Gallery. There aren't really words to describe it, and I won't try. It's room upon gilded room of beautiful, historical art, everything from the 1200's onwards, encompassing most of Europe. It's completely endless, rooms flowing one into the other, like a maze, or a river, each one waiting to be discovered. It's absolutely amazing, and I await the chance to explore it further.

Going to Oxford tomorrow, the city of dreaming spires, and being such a Philip Pullman-reading nerd, I am quite looking forward to it. More on that when I return.

Valentine's Day

Here are some of the photos that I took on Valentine's Day. As you can tell, I'm not a brilliant photographer and seem to have some difficulty. If I use the flash, they come out entirely too dark (like the one in the middle, included purely as an example) and if I don't they come out blurrily pretty but entirely unfocused. Since we're all friends here, we can pretend that I'm trying to be artistic and blurring the photos on purpose (or rather, that's what I'm going to pretend, and you can think what you like). In any case, I still think that they're pretty.

The London Eye (which I have yet to go on) was red for Valentine's day (it's usually blue). Really pretty, and I'm told the view is to die for (which I imagine you would, if you fell out of one of the little car things), but there's always an obscenely long line for it.

Happy Valentinte's Day! (yeah, I know it was on Saturday)

This was absolutely the best Valentine's Day that I have had to date (and without a date, mind you). In my determination to be out of character, I vowed not to spend my Valentine's Day at home alone (it is really far better to spend it outside and alone, as I discovered).

On Saturday, I defied my own lack of direction to finally discover where Old Spitalfields Market was, and felt quite triumphant in finding it, except for the minor fact that none of the stalls were open. But the stores and restaurants around the market were, and I enjoyed a celebratory lunch at a sweet little crepe shop (I loooove crepes. If you don't love crepes, then it's only because haven't had them properly, and I pity you).

After returning the way I came (which is to say I went home for a bit), I thought to take advantage of the nature of the day, and thusly I took myself out to the National Film Institute for a free outdoor showing of Shakespeare in Love.

Of course, being myself, I turned the wrong way coming out of the tube station and couldn't find the National Film Institute, which turned out quite well anyway. The Thames was beautiful that night, with the lights glittering off of it, and ropes of twinkle lights lining the balustrades. Beautiful things are enjoyable whether or not you have someone to share them with, I've discovered. So I meandered along at my pleasure, taking out of focus pictures (my camera doesn't like to cooperate when it's dark outside) and feeling the breeze on my cheeks.

In the course of my walk, I did have a young lady shout in my face, but I'm sure it was well intentioned.

'Mum, Guess what? I'm engaged!' she yelled gleefully.

She had a cell phone pressed to her ear, so I'm pretty sure she didn't think I was her mother, and she didn't step on my feet, so overall, I was quite happy to get out of her way.

Being myself, of course, I eventually had to use the loo, and after popping into a building for use of their facilities, I held the door for a young lady pushing a cart full of cake slices. She, being disproportionately grateful, gave me a free one.

After a bit more wandering, I happened upon the movie that I had come to see initially (about 45 minutes in, which is completely ok, as I've seen it before), and although I will admit that eventually my tushi did get a bit cold, I thoroughly enjoyed it (and, as usual, cried at the end). So, there I sat, popping lemonheads (which I had brought with me, carrying them fiendishly in my pocket, like an alcoholic with a bottle of beer) and crying.

Of course, though, any night on which you get free cake is a good night.

Sunday, while not technically Valentine's Day, I will count as a part of it.

Why?

Because this is my blog and I want to.

Sunday, after having overslept, as usual, which is far less of a crime when one has nothing to do with one's day, I did a bit of homework before setting off into the vastness of the city, to end up at 33 Portland Place, where I received my very first tango lesson.

The building, which is a stately residence on the outside, blending well with the officious-looking white-faced schools and embassies that trot down the rest of Portland Place, is deliciously dilapidated on the inside, with aged wooden floors, peeling wallpaper, and candlelight adding to the atmposphere. In short, the perfect place to learn to tango.

While I don't profess to be graceful, I do enjoy learning, and watching those with considerably more experience (and poise) than I have spin around the room after the lesson, I promised myself I'd be back next week.

So, in short, my dateless Valentine's day was not without it's own sense of romance (and cake! did I mention the free cake?). And I've discovered that life can be surprisingly entertaining if you'll just put in the effort to look outside of your own four walls, and if you're willing to take things with a little sense of adventure. I have also promised myself to try at least one new thing every day, and we'll see where that takes me.

Cheers!

- Lena

Stonehenge photos

Since I've only recently figured out how to post photos on this thing, I figured I'd post some that were take earlier, just so you guys could see.